


Delicium Daemonii | Demon’s Pet

by TheMusicalHermit



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Kink, Demon Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, Demonic Possession, Horror, Non-Consensual Kissing, Other, gender neutral reader, gratuitous Latin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMusicalHermit/pseuds/TheMusicalHermit
Summary: Local legends wove dark tales of a man who disappeared into the church ahead of a mob. How the church had disappeared in a ball of fire over which his spiteful laughs could be heard. How those laughs had turned into pained howls when a fiery hook shot up through the ground and dragged him into Hell.You hadn’t believed a word of it. You probably should have.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, have a thing I wrote while avoiding literally all my other responsibilities and wanting to play around with Catholic things now that my headcanon for Junkrat’s religion is apparently canon. This story feels complete to me, so I’m putting it as complete for right now despite the open ending, but the mood may strike to continue it later. Edit: the mood struck. It will still be a while.
> 
> Latin translations courtesy of a friend who has no idea why I wanted/needed them. The English translations are in chapter end notes when they occur.
> 
> AND A/N: I own not Overwatch and make no money from this piece.

Your friends had dragged you out to the ruins of the Old Parish church for a party. The ivy and weed choked grey stones had always given you a foreboding feeling, one that apparently no amount of liquor could drown out.

The wrecked sanctuary was small, with age-worn stones that were too smooth to the touch in some places. The walls were only half present on two sides, and the belfry still stood tall over the rest of the remains.

The church would have been small, and the space was easily traceable since there had been remarkably little raiding of the ruins for stone. The one place where this was different was a hole in the stone floor just before the altar space. This is what you told yourself. 

Locals told other stories.

Local history held that a fire had destroyed the structure. That wouldn’t have explained the smoothness of the stone in some places, even with the centuries since the fire.

Local legends told a slightly different story - dark tales of a man who disappeared into the church ahead of a mob. How the church had disappeared in a ball of fire over which his spiteful laughs could be heard. How those laughs had turned into pained howls when a fiery hook shot up through the ground and dragged him into Hell.

The reasons for the mob varied, as did the man’s history.

Some said they were Protestants hunting a Catholic.

Some said they were witch hunters and he a sorcerer.

There were endless varieties of the tale.

Yet the most common thread was casting him as a wicked priest. This struck you as simply being more interesting than him being otherwise, what with the whole ‘hook from hell’ at the end of the tale.

You didn’t believe a word of it. Just local superstitions to attempt to draw in tourists and scare exchange students.

Which brought you back to why you were here - your friends, their friends, and the summer party. A mix of both students and tourists tonight.

At least someone had brought good beer.

There was only one local amongst you - Reinhardt. He was a tall and incredibly muscled man, and old enough for you to wonder why he was even here as you flittered about the party.

It seemed that he was here because he was a story teller. One who could be paid with beer. Or one who was here for free beer. Or possibly he had brought the beer.

It was hard to tell.

Regardless, you’d overheard him tell at least three different versions of the church’s history in the past hour. And your friends just ate up every single one, gleefully awaiting the next twist he’d put in to a tale they’d already heard as the candles burned on in the background.

You sat there, annoyed and buzzed, and tried to ignore the foreboding feeling that you just couldn’t shake. This was a party - you should be enjoying yourself.

Instead, you just got drunk. The world spun too much, and you found yourself laughing at things that weren’t that funny.

Like some skinhead, a friend of a friend of a friend or something, trying to pin you against a broken column and put his hand down your pants. You had punched him in the nose and gotten away without too much difficulty. Unfortunately by doing so you were apparently on his shit list now. Along with that of his small posse, given the way the group glowered at you from the other side of the story circle.

Finally you had drawn yourself away from the party slightly to watch, curled up against the altar dais and sipping your warm beer with a scowl.

“There you are.” You look up to see one of the exchange students you’d befriended, Matilda, approaching with a couple of water bottles. “Are you having a fun time?”

You snorted, tracing a finger over the random engravings on the stones beneath you. “You know this is all bullshit, yeah?” She shot you a confused look as she sat next to you, pressing the cool bottle into your free hand. “Thanks,” you slurred, hand shifting against the sweating plastic as you chugged the remnants of your beer.

“What’s bullshit,” she asked as she took a sip of her own water. “The party?”

“No.” Your eyebrows scrunched up as you let your head rest back on the dais. “Well, yes, but I more meant the stories he’s telling.”

“You mean the demon priest,” Matilda questioned, sounding only slightly less drunk than you. “Maybe it is. But it’s fun. Trying to piece together the truth through the lies.”

You rolled your eyes as you took sip of water. “Who has time for that? No, what’s most, what’s most likely is that it’s all made up.”

Matilda giggled, sounding like a little girl. “You’re drunk, and yet you still need to loosen up. So what if it’s all pretend?”

You shrugged, giving a noncommittal grunt. She hefted herself up with a sigh. “Well, fine then. I was gonna invite you to join us for more stories - Reinhardt knows stuff about that angel statue in the graveyard out back.”

You groaned, hand moving fuzzily to your head. “I don’t know if I could stomach another session of make believe,” you muttered. “Even if I made it out there, I’d probably hurl.”

Matilda frowned. Leaning down to tap your water bottle, she said “Well, drink up. You’ll have a terrible hangover either way, but I’ve found that keeping everything down is always better.”

“Except for when it isn’t,” you said around the mouth of the bottle.

“I’ll be out back,” she said, apparently ignoring your quip and stumbling over her heels and the uneven floor as she followed the crowd. “Don’t leave without me, okay?”

You waved after her. Or, rather, you tried to. What you really did was throw your hand in the air in her direction and allow it to flop to the stones beneath you with a loud slap.

The stones were more uneven here, in front of the altar place. You idly kicked a shiny pebble into the hole next to you. It landed in the tiny dirt pit beneath with a small clatter. You stared at it, then turned your water bottle up over it. The stone gleamed more deeply as the water ran over it. You stared for another second before growing bored once more.

Turning your head, you looked at the engravings you had traced earlier. The ones on the sides of the dais were normal - people carving names, dates, hearts... Really just the kind of stuff tourists do everywhere. The ones on the floor were more interesting. Esoteric, your mind spat out, mystical. A writhing mix of odd symbols cut deeply into the stone.

Clearly someone had tried to give more credence to the tall tale. You snorted again as you took another sip of water.

“Hey, boys, come and see what we have here.” You looked up blearily to see the skinhead from earlier standing on the dais above, bent at the waist and looking down at you with an unreadable expression. His three friends stood behind him, equally unreadable.

You gave him your best glare. “The fuck do you want,” you spat.

The skinhead scowled at you before hooking his thumb in his collar. Pulling it forward, he displayed a small splatter of blood on the fabric. “You ruined my shirt.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, and? You stuck your hand down my pants.”

“Are you always such a frigid little bitch,” he returned, standing a bit straighter.

You gave him a bland look. “Does it matter if I am?”

One of the other guys stepped off the dais, hands stuck in his hoodie pocket. Another shortly followed him and swayed slightly as he clutched a can of beer. The final guy simply stepped closer to the edge of the dais, rubbing a hand over his black undercut as he licked his lips and stared down at you.

“I’ve been asking around about you,” the skinhead continued as he jumped down to stand next to you, one hand stuck in his jacket pocket. “And seems like you just don’t know how to have a good time.”

The foreboding feeling was back now, for entirely different reasons. You sat up straighter and tried to focus through the haze of alcohol.

“I know how to have fun,” you said as evenly as possible.

His close-lipped smile made you shiver as his eyes traced your form. “Maybe you do. But apparently not in the way that matters.”

You pulled your legs closer to your body as the four young men circled you. “And what way is that,” you slurred as you started to lift yourself to a standing position, using the dais as support.

The guy with the black undercut caught hold of you under your armpit, cold fingers brushing your bare arm as the skinhead snickered darkly.

He swung himself to his feet and leaned in closely enough for you to smell the beer on his breath. “You’re still a virgin,” he whispered, looking at you with a knowing smirk as he tapped you on the nose, his other hand resting on your hip.

You frowned and pushed their hands off, taking a few shaking steps away. “And why does that matter,” you said. You capping the water bottle shakily when they all shadowed your movement.

“Hey, relax,” slurred the guy with the beer can. “We just want to show you a good time.”

“Yeah,” the one in the hoodie added in a voice that belied a smoking habit. “You looked like you were bored, anyway.”

You shook your head, turning around dizzily to see that they were all closing in on you. Your heel caught on the edge of the hole in the floor. You stumbled, cursing, only to feel the cold hands of the one with the undercut catch you about the shoulders to hold you upright.

“Leave me alone,” you yelled. 

How far away was everyone else? Would they hear you if you screamed?

“Come on,” the skinhead said as he slid a hand over your waist and cupped you through your shorts. “Don’t you want to have fun?”

“No,” you hissed, kicking him and cursing your decision to dress for the warm weather in a sleeveless t-shirt and knee-length shorts.

The skinhead hissed in pain when your leg made contact, doubling over and clutching himself. “Fuck you,” he groaned. Turning his head to the one in the hoodie, he yelled, “Give me something to keep this little bitch in line.”

The hoodie grinned, pulling out a switchblade and throwing it to the skinhead, who caught it deftly. “Do we all get a turn this time,” he asked, knawing on his thumbnail as he palmed himself. “I mean, it’s my knife.”

“I want second go,” the undercut said, fingers squeezing your shoulders roughly. “This one’s uptight enough that it should be fun for a good few rounds, but you owe me for the last one still.”

“What about me, guys,” slurred the drunk one as he leant against the dais. “I was the one who came up with the idea to ask about the statue.”

The skinhead snapped open the blade with a wicked look on his face. “Guys, guys, we can all have a go,” he crooned, one hand feeling you up as he held the blade to your neck. “But I get first go.”

“You always go first,” groused the drunk one as he slid to the ground.

The skinhead ignored him to press a cold and unfeeling kiss to your lips.

You squirmed under the knife, causing the blade to slip and nick your skin. The skinhead clicked his tongue at you before pressing his thumb into the wound. You whined in pain, earning a round of mocking echoes from the three men standing around you.

Pushing ineffectually at the skinhead’s shoulders, one hand still clutching the water bottle like it was a lifeline, you pleaded to be let go. Jerking his head, he motioned for the undercut to hold you still. The other man’s body slid up against your back and you froze momentarily when you felt the hard bulge in his trousers.

“Get on with it,” groaned the one in the hoodie as he rocked against his hand. “We don’t have all night.”

The skinhead licked his lips as he stepped back, dropping the bloody knife as he started undoing his belt buckle. The blade clattered across the floor, red spotting the stones around the pit and landing in front of the drunk one. 

“We’re going to have lots of fun with you,” the one with the undercut whispered into your ear, hot breath sliding over your neck as he rocked against you. You shied away from his movements and into the hands of the skinhead, who, having slid down his zipper, had moved to undo yours.

You keened in the back of your throat and wished that you were anywhere but here. You leant back for a moment, earning a pleased grunt from the man behind you as you lashed your legs out at the skinhead’s stomach. You missed, causing him to laugh until you threw the water bottle at him.

The half empty bottle hit shoulder and popped open, spilling over his shirt and jean jacket. He reeled back in shock as his friends laughed at him. “Shut the fuck up,” he shouted at them. Then he was in sneering in your face, his hands moving faster as he shoved your shorts down. “I’m going to teach you some manners, you little bitch.”

His rough fingers hooked into your pants and you cried out in despair as he began to work them off your hips. You found yourself throwing prayers out, begging for someone, _anyone_ to save you.

Then, a thought that did not seem to be yours came into your head as the skinhead’s smooth fingers probed you curiously. Did you want to be saved?

Yes, your mind screamed as discomfort and shame coursed through you.

The next thought was about what would you be willing to give to be saved. Again, it seemed to come from outside yourself. 

The skinhead grunted as he hooked one of your legs around his waist and held it there. He stepped closer, jerking himself roughly in anticipation even as he tried to line up with your hole.

You would give anything to be saved. 

You sobbed in fear and twisted away as best you could from the men.

You could swear you heard distant laughter as the skinhead’s free hand hand slid to your hip, trying to hold you steady.

Suddenly a strangled gasp came from the guy in the hoodie. The one at your back snickered into your hair. “Did you already come? Jesus, dude, you - ” His words cut off as he stiffened. “The fuck are two doing?”

The skinhead paused when another strangled gasp echoed through the area. Someone was giggling. 

When he turned to look at his friends, he cursed and pulled back slightly, dick wilting quickly. “What the hell are you doing, man!”

You looked over and let out a choked scream. The drunk guy was back on his feet, holding the bloody knife as he pulled it out of the hooded man’s back again with a high pitched giggle. He drove it it a final time, twisting it with a coo before pushing the hooded man to the floor. He didn’t move as blood slowly pooled around him.

“Hey, dude,” the skinhead said as he pulled up his trousers and did up the button, looking at his fallen friend with a worried expression. “Look, if you wanted first go that badly, you just had to say so.”

The drunk’s eyes were far too clear and seemed to glow in the candlelight as he stepped over the body towards you.

“Ah, apples, mate,” he said in an accented voice. “See, I’ve got a, uh, whatzit called again?” He tapped the bloody blade against his lips, looking up at the stars unblinkingly for a few seconds. His eyes twitched, then drew back to you and the men on either side of you. “Oh, right. Ya see, I’ve got a deal. Gotta keep what’s mine safe, izall. So no need ta fret.”

He licked the blood from his lips and giggled. “Well, maybe ya should. Maybe just a little bit.” He juggled the blade from hand to hand as he smiled at the two men. “Now, howzit this beat down’s gonna go, ay?”

The guy with the undercut threw you to the ground as he pulled out his own knife. You tripped over your shorts, ending up in an ungainly pile of limbs as the skinhead did up the rest of his trousers and started fishing through the pockets of his jacket.

Your own hands fumbled to pull up your pants and shorts, the simple task taking far too long in your drunken state as shouts of pain and howls of laughter erupted behind you.

You had just done up your zipper when the body of the guy with the undercut landed in front of you. He pressed his hands ineffectually to his stomach, where a blooming spot of red began to grow and didn’t stop. He cried in softly in pain before an unseen force threw him up and backwards. His scream was loud, then abruptly cut off in the middle of another round of giggles.

The skinhead’s hand shook as he brandished a lighter and a can of spray paint. “Holy shit dude! Fuck, the hell did you take?”

“Oi, no need for that kinda language,” came the reply in a sing song voice as his footsteps neared you. “I didn’t take nothing. Well, nothing ‘cept what was given ta me.”

The smell of beer enveloped you as the drunk squatted down beside you, one bloodied hand going to your shoulder as he turned you over. “Ya owe me heaps for this, by the by. So glad ya already promised me the world,” he grinned, eyes gleaming wickedly as they traced your form. He licked his lips, catching more blood and giggling again. “Not ta worry, though, not ta worry! _Haha_ , we’ve got ‘till the seventh seal for ya to pay me back, pet!”

“Hey, you weird fuck, look at me and tell me what the hell it is you think you’re doing,” the skinhead commanded.

You scrambled backwards as the skinhead kicked the drunk in the head, causing it to swivel away with a snap. The drunk jolted against the force and slumped sightly, head looking over his back in a way that just wasn’t possible. The skinhead faltered, looking stricken before fear set back in.

The drunk’s head stayed at that angle as he sighed and stood. He turned to the skinhead and reached up with one hand to twist the head forward again.

His smile was cold when he looked at the other man again. “Did ya really hafta do that? I mean, good on ya for doing me a favour an’ breaking your mate’s neck. Shut him up right quick, that.” His hand fell away as he jerked the head from side to side, eliciting loud cracks. “ _But_ you’ve gone and fucked up my vessel, ruining the deal I’d made with it. And _haha_ , mate, I don’t take kindly ta people messing with what’s mine.”

The skinhead balked but held the can and lighter at the ready. “The fuck are you,” he whispered.

Whatever the drunk now was merely smiled in return and giggled.

The next instant, the makeshift flamethrower exploded in the skinhead’s hands, creating a fireball that ate away at his sleeves even as he screamed and bent over the bloody stumps at the end of his wrists.

The drunk laughed and hummed a jaunty tune as he skipped over. “Well, now, that was _fun_ ,” he said in a sing-song voice as he grabbed the skinhead by the neck and pulled him to a kneeling position before him. “But, seems ta me you’ve got some real _fun_ ahead of ya.”

The thing, for that was all that you could think to call it, giggled again before trailing off, staring down at the crying youth before him with wide eyes.

“ _Dic me, puer mi, quae peccatae tuae sunt,_ ” he said lowly, smoothing the hand that held the blade over the kneeling man’s forehead before suddenly before laughing again. In a higher voice he taunted, “ _Non confessionem fecisti, non baptizatum eras. Scimus, scimus omne quid te factus est. Vis videre caelum?_ Hahaha, _est limbus solus quis videbis, et deinde? Es_ mei.”

He cackled, bringing the blade to the skinhead’s throat and tracing a cross there. Shushing the whimpering man, he began speaking again and cutting deeper with each pause in his mocking words. “In nomine... patris... et filii... et spiritus... sancti...” He cackled again, leaning deep to lick the bleeding cross before twisting the head to the side and hissing into they dying man’s ear. “I’ll be waiting for ya, mate. An’ I hate waiting.”

The man licked his lips as he let him fall, smearing the blood there further. He giggled again, then sighed. “Oh, pet, I can’t wait ‘till that one gets past the gates. Gonna really have a ripper of a time when I get my claws on him, mark my words.” He giggled once more and turned to you as he twirled the blade between his fingers.

“Now, ‘bout our deal,” he drawled as he dragged his eyes lasciviously over you.

You were on your feet and running before he could take another step towards you. You heard him giggle again before you suddenly found yourself tripping. There was a newfound burning, torn sensation in your leg, like something had bitten it, but when you looked down there was nothing there. You tried to struggle to your feet again, only for it to feel like the floor had exploded beneath you, throwing you into the air and causing you to fall harshly on your back.

The world was spinning around you dizzily. All you could do was gasp and roll from side to side in an effort not to puke. When everything finally righted itself again you looked up to see the blood stained man (thing?) was squatting next to you again, watching you with a lazy smile.

“You’re right fucking pissed up, ain’t ya,” he said cheerfully as he played with the knife, opening and closing it with a series of clicks. “Cause, ya see, normally that trick don’t work unless someone’s not full feather at the time. ‘Specially not while’s I’m not, yanno,” he paused to wave a hand towards himself, “actually physically present.”

He planted his hands on the ground in next to you and leant over your prostrate form with a light frown. “It’s fucking hard work, yanno, keeping a body what starts fighting ya halfway through things. Shouting things like ‘oi, ya mad cunt, I just wanted first crack! I didn’t mean ya could hurt me mates’ and the like.” 

He laughed, and sighed when his head drooped at a broken angle. Shaking it, he snapped it audibly back into place. “Ah yeah. An’ it’s even worse if it’s a corpse. Had forgot ‘bout that. _Hahaha_ , ‘least it’s quieter in here now, pet.” Pulling back, he tapped his forehead with the knife.

You could only squeak in fear and shock as you stared up at his manic grin. “Who... what?”

“Well ain’t you ever the articulate one,” he snickered as he shifted to straddle your hips, knife continuously snapping open and closed in his hands. “Still, I s’pose I should answer your questions, ‘least ‘fore anything what’s real fun happens.”

He winked at you, and said, “Lesse now, which name, which name...” He tapped the blade to his lips again in thought. “Ah, yeah. You can call me Fawkes. ‘Least for the mo'. An’ what I am’s not that important right now, pet. ‘Sides, I think you’ve already figured that one for yourself.” He giggled, eyes darting to the pit.

You stiffened as his weight pressed into you and fought back another bout of nausea. He hummed another jaunty tune above you as he snapped open the knife and examined the dully gleaming blade in the candlelight. You shifted, trying to work up the will to struggle, but all that flew out the window when he pressed a hand to the centre of your chest to keep you still.

He had yet to look away from the sharp edge he held in his hand. “Now, while I think that getting started on all the things what you promised for me gallantly coming ta your rescue would be ace, they’s almost done out back. Which means I gotta do something with these bastards what tried ta take what’s mine.” He turned to spit on the corpse of the skinhead. 

“Cunts. Anyway, pet,” he continued jovially as he spun back to you with a smile, “she’ll be alright. Don’t ya worry none ‘bout our deal.” He leant over you, supporting his weight on his elbows as he brushed his nose against yours. “I’ll come ta collect soon enough, and then we’ll really lair it up, just you and me.”

You tried to pull away, but the hard stone beneath you prevented you from doing little more than turning your head to the side. He laughed in your ear before biting it sharply.

He sat up with a frown, looking up in the direction of the graveyard with an expression of mild annoyance. “Oh, how bloody brilliant. They’re already done.” He sighed and rolled his shoulders before flipping the bird.

Looking back to you, he smiled widely once more. Slowly he leant back over you, eyes flickering across your face and over your body as he slid his free hand up to brace it on your sternum. “I’m ‘fraid our time’s almost up, pet. Lemme give ya a little something ta remember me by.”

You watched him warily, confused when all he did was stare at his hand and giggle. The burning started slowly, so slowly that at first you thought that it was simply the warmth of his hand, but crescendoed quickly. You hissed and writhed beneath him in pain as he cooed, whispering, “There, there, pet, don’t cry, not yet,” and streams of languages that you didn’t know and couldn’t place.

The pain stopped when he finally removed his hand. He giggled at your tear-stained face, brushing over your cheek with his free hand and bringing the glistening drops to his lips. His eyes flicked towards the graveyard again, head tilting to the side in consideration. “Should have just long enough,” he muttered to himself.

Suddenly his hand was pushing your face into the floor as he brought the blade to the cut your earlier attackers had left. “You’ll be a good pet,” he murmured against your collarbone, “and give me a little something ta remember you by, won’t you?”

The blade dug into the wound once more, opening it further, before his lips pressed into the gash. His tongue and teeth stung as they felt along the ridges of the cut, causing you to cry out in pain. Your hands shot up to dig into his shoulders, trying in vain to push him off as your legs kicked uselessly behind him. He ignored your attempts and rocked against you as he all but drank from your neck, alternating between grunting and giggling into your neck.

“Fuck, if you’re this damn delicious right now then I _really_ can’t wait to have you in the flesh,” he said, moving away from the cut at last to press a flurry of kisses on the underside of your jaw.

You squirmed again when he trailed his tongue over the wound one last time. “Oh, pet, I know you’re sad ta say goodbye, but don’t you worry. I’ll be watching over you!”

He laughed, pulling your face around and pressing his cold and bloody lips to your in a harsh kiss.

“Toodles,” he said in a sing-song, waggling his fingers at you as the world went black.

The next thing you knew, Matilda was shaking you awake. “Hey, are you alright? You look like you passed out.”

You looked around blearily, realising you were back at the dais. There were no corpses around you, nor any spots of blood staining the floor. Your hand flew to your throat, only to meet unbroken skin.

Shit, that has to have been the worst fucking nightmare of your life. “I guess I must have fallen asleep,” you replied slowly, not fully believing the words even as you tried to convince yourself of their validity.

Matilda’s brow knitted with worry. “Do you need me to take you back to the hostel?”

You looked up at her, chewing your lip. Your mouth tasted like copper and stale beer. “Yeah, I think I should head back. Sorry for ruining the party,” you said as she helped you unsteadily to your feet.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a friendly smile. “I’m more just glad nothing happened while you were all alone up here. Walking through the graveyard took a lot longer than usual tonight, even with Reinhardt leading the way.”

“I bet you got some fun stories out of him though,” you shot back as the two of you made your way out to the street, waving at other party goers as you went.

“Mostly just stories about the dead people in the graveyard.” She giggled, looking fondly at the party behind you as you turned the street corner. “Those can be interesting enough, but I’m more a fan of ghost stories and that kind of stuff. What about you?”

You snorted, remembering your nightmare. “I don’t think I have the stomach for those stories. I shall stick to my light and happy stories, thank you very much.”

The two of you continued chatting lightly as you made your way back to the youth hostel. Once there, you parted ways and entered your separate rooms. You couldn’t wait to crawl into bed with your tablet and watch an episode of your favourite television show. Screw going back to sleep until you had something pleasant on your mind.

Your room was simple - a bed, a desk, and a small mirror. You began stripping immediately upon closing the door, walking topless across the room in a brazen manner until something caught the corner of your eye. Your eyes shot to the bed, then to the mirror on the opposite wall.

You could have sworn you saw a the reflection of a shadow lounging on your bed as you had walked past. You snorted to yourself. Clearly just the lingering effects of the alcohol-induced nightmare.

Then you saw something in the mirror that made your blood freeze.

On your sternum was what looked like a brand in the shape of a smiley face.

You traced the crossed out eyes lightly with one finger.

You swore you could hear laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the Latin means: “Tell me, my child [masculine], what are your sins?”  
> “You have not done confession, nor have you been baptised. We know, we know all that which you have done. Do you wish to see heaven?”  
> “It is but limbo that you will see, and then? You are mine.”  
> “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”


	2. Chapter 2

The laughter echoed through your head as you stared at the mark on your chest. Your hand dropped away from tracing the bumpy skin in disgust. It felt like a week old blister. The kind where you had popped the blister and left the skin to act as a natural bandage. Rough, hard, and oddly numb.

You scratched the edge of a fingernail over the blemish, trying to peel it off, and hissed when it started bleeding.

 _You trying ta summon me, pet_ whispered a voice in your head.

Your heart was beating faster again. No. No way was that dream still haunting you - clearly it hadn’t been a nightmare after all.

Even as you thought that, you remembered how previous nightmares you had had as a child would get stuck in your head for days. This was just the same thing; a booze-induced nightmare that you couldn’t stop thinking about. 

The explanation calmed you.

Yes. Clearly what was going on was that your brain was still caught up in that weirdo nightmare you’d had. You turned to grab some tissues and dab at the wound, thinking over how you had managed to get a brand at the party.

Well, you had been drinking. Maybe you had decided to get one of the world’s weirdest tattoos.

Actually, no. That is what happened. You got drunk, and probably blacked out. While you were blacked out you... You got a terrible tattoo. And probably listened to the story of the church’s history once more before falling asleep.

Yes. That makes sense.

You still covered the mirror with your old shirt before changing for bed.

You also left the light on as you snuggled beneath the duvet with your tablet. You put on your favourite show, hoping to drown out the memories of the party and whatever your brain had concocted with the familiar jokes and witticisms.

But your mind’s eye wouldn’t stop playing the image of a man with a broken neck tearing his teeth into the flesh of your throat.

All throughout the episode you had felt as if someone was watching you. It even got so bad that you had covered the camera with your thumb and pressed your back into the corner that your bed rested in. But nothing helped - the prickling sensation at the back of your head wouldn’t go away no matter how much you tried to focus on this season’s antics.

The credits rolled, leaving the screen black for a moment. With a startled scream you flung the tablet away from you. You brushed a hand over the back of your head, turning and looking at the blank wall behind you.

You were certain that you had seen the figure of something, a shadowed man, perched behind you. His overlong fingers had been outstretched towards your skull in a caress as he smiled at you with blindingly white, fanged teeth and eyes like the embers of a dying fire.

You picked back up the tablet with shaking fingers. At least you hadn’t broken it. Drawing in a shaking breath, you opened up a graphing application. Nothing like crunching numbers and dimensions to distract you when comedy failed.

Soon you had completed four new graphs for your personal project. Your jaw cracked when you yawned, and the next graph malfunctioned as you tried to enter in another equation. Taking this as a signal that you were ready for sleep, you placed the tablet back on the charger.

You laid down, drawing the duvet around your chin as you tried to settle in. But you couldn’t get comfortable. No matter how you tossed and turned, you couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched still.

The movement didn’t help the stupid tattoo either, as it drew tighter the more you shifted. Tighter and tighter until it felt like it was burning. Was this normal for tattoos? You’d heard that tattoos need lotion and bandages to heal properly; whoever had given you yours had obviously not done either. Right?

Still. With the now inescapable reminder of the tattoo came the reminder of the sound of a neck being broken, of men screaming, and of the laughter that even now echoed in your head.

You found yourself staring at the covered mirror, willing yourself to sleep even as you fought to keep your eyes open. The lights flickered slightly as you laid there. They did that during the day, too, sometimes, when left on too long. It still seemed to put you on edge again. Meanwhile, all your attempts to build up the bravery to close your eyes seemed futile. 

Someone was skipping through the hall. Their laughter was loud even through your closed door. You thought of standing to open the door, to shout at whomever it was. It was three thirty-three in the morning, according to a quick glance at the digital clock on your desk.

But you didn’t want to leave your bed. You felt safe there.

The skipping person bounded past again outside. A stray breeze fluttered the cloth over the mirror.

Someone knocked on the door.

You glanced at the clock. The numbers were blinking, showing three thirty-three still. You stared at the flashing digits, waiting for the knocking to stop. You didn’t want to get out of bed. The clock just continued flashing those same three numbers.

The knocking at the door stopped. You released a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

Something was knocking at your window next. The beat was the same as the knocking on the door. You pulled your covers over your head. It was just the tree outside. Then you remembered. There aren’t any trees outside your window. Well then, clearly it’s the wind.

Someone skipped through the hall again, giggling now. From somewhere nearby you heard booming echoes of heavy footsteps slowly climbing stairs. Or was that your heartbeat?

The next bout of knocking came from the door at first. Then it came from the wall beside the door. It was louder and with more force, as if someone were putting their entire body into the blows. Then knocking came from the wall next to your head. 

You almost vaulted from the bed in your haste to get away from the sound of cracking plaster. Clutching your duvet around you as you laid in an ungainly heap on the floor, you turned to look at the wall. 

There was nothing there.

A breeze flittered through the room, ruffling the shirt over the mirror again. Turning, you saw that the wind had pulled it off one corner. A sliver of the glass was uncovered. What you saw there was no reflection of your room.

It was a roiling mass of blood red shapes and shadows surrounding a platform that extended down into some sort of abyss. From beyond came the booming of footsteps.

The footsteps paused. In their place came a deep snuffling sound, as if some great beast was scenting the air. You clutched the duvet closer, frozen in place at the sensation of something big and dangerous nearby.

The sniffing noise stopped but this offered you no relief as you knew (you weren’t sure how, but you _knew_ ) that whatever made the sound had noticed you.

The booming footsteps came faster, louder, as they began to close in on the mirror.

With a small, half-strangled squeak you jumped up and flung the shirt back over the corner of the mirror. As your fingers scrabbled at the fabric, something big and heavy bounced on the other side of the mirror.

The mark on your chest burned. _Can’t hide forever, pet_ sang a voice from the darker corners of your room.

Laughter sounded from nearby, almost in your ear. You jerked away from the wall, clapping your hands over your ears in an attempt to silence the sound. Careening about without aim, you fell across the desk. Your chin landing painfully next to the clock.

It read three thirty-three. 

It felt like someone was dragging needles up your spine. You gasped and arched your back away from the sensation, fingers growing white on the edges of the table.

Then someone’s mouth was at your ear as they draped a stiff and frozen body over you. The lips were clammy and cold, feeling more like wet clay than flesh, but the breath was as hot as a furnace. 

_Now, ‘bout our deal_ came the voice again, spoken by the thing at your ear.

The laughter came again in a roar and dissolved into someone knocking at the door.

You sat up in bed, hissing at an ache in your back and rubbing blearily at your eyes. The knocking continued.

You shot a glance at your clock to see that it read two fifty-six. 

“Hey, are you awake,” came a voice from beyond the door.

Throwing back the covers you reached over for your bathrobe as you went to answer the door. Opening it up you found Matilda.

She appeared more mussed up than usual, but somehow still immaculate with her sleep mask pushing back her hair as she stood before you in a fluffy ensemble of a pink and white robe, pyjamas and slippers. 

She looked concerned, taking a moment to peer from the darkened hallway into the blazing lights of your room before looking at you again. “I heard screaming. Are you alright?”

You hummed, still jealously wondering how someone could be woken in the middle of the night and look so perfect. “What? Oh, yeah,” you said, shifting to stand more fully behind the door. “It was only a nightmare.”

“Oh.” Matilda glanced towards her room down the hall. “I didn’t realise the story would have affected you that much.”

“I think it’s more just a booze-induced nightmare I had while passed out,” you replied, feeling nervous guilt rising in your belly. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Matilda’s eyebrows twitched. “Well, you were screaming pretty loudly. Are you sure you’re alright? Do you need me to get you some water or something?”

The tattoo on your chest felt like it was burning. Probably the area that you’d picked at acting up. You’d have to get some disinfectant for it. 

“Ah, nah. I’m fine,” you found yourself telling her. You paused, thinking over what you remembered from before the probable blackout point as the pain faded. “Hey, do you remember that guy I punched?”

“Wha- you punched some- No.”

You cocked your head at her, furrowing your brow slightly as your sluggish mind worked over what she’d said. “I thought you knew almost everyone at that party,” you whispered back.

“Well, yeah, but I was focusing on the stories Reinhardt was telling,” she said, moving closer to remain quiet. “It’s not every day I meet a folklorist outside of my classes. But, who did you punch?!”

So _she_ was the reason for the repetitions. You filed that information away, focusing on the topic that you were more concerned with.

“There was a skinhead and his friends,” you began only to hear her scoff.

“Oh, you mean those assholes,” she said, making a noise of disgust. “They’re local students.”

“Well he, the skinhead, tried to,” you started to explain only for a burning sensation to start in the tattoo and quickly evolve into an inferno.

You gasped and staggered back, clutching at your chest. Matilda looked on with blatant concern, reaching one hand out to you as if to try and catch you if you fell.

“Hey,” Matilda said, pressing her lips together in a firm line. “If he tried anything, uh, bad, which it seems like he did, I can bring it up with the university if you want.”

“Nah, nah.” The words came unbidden from your throat. “No need for that, uh, you. You, ah, you silly thing, you. _Haha_. I’ve handled ‘em.”

Leaning onto the doorjamb, you smiled at her reassuringly. Matilda blinked and leaned in closer.

“Are you high?”

You grinned and chuckled as you licked your upper lip, flicking your eyes to the ceiling and back to her. “Yes. No, wait, no,” you said, holding up a finger, “I’m still drunk.”

Matilda pulled back, face screwed up in confusion as you giggled again.

What was going on? You wanted to scream, to slap yourself out of whatever was happening, to shout to Matilda that no, you were not alright. Something was going on. You still weren’t sure what, but something was definitely wrong.

There was laughter in your head again, blocking out whatever Matilda was saying. Your hand raised up, waving her goodbye. 

Then you closed the door.

As soon as the door closed the burning in your chest stopped.

You dragged your hand down the surface, breathing shakily.

“What the fuck.”

**Author's Note:**

> As a note for the title - in the event this changes to a Gendered Reader the current title uses the neuter form of ‘pet/darling/beloved.’ There are both male and female versions that the title will change to if the gender of the Reader changes. I may also get rid of the Latin title.
> 
> Meanwhile, you can find me at themusicalhermit.tumblr.com


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